I'm Jessica Lynch and Here's My Real Story

In April, I did something I never imagined I would need to do. I spoke before Congress about how the military creates myths exaggerating the heroics of its soldiers. It was a difficult choice—I knew I could be portrayed as unpatriotic, un-American or worse. But my reasons were personal, and profound. My capture and rescue in Iraq had been transformed into one of those myths.

There’s so much confusion about what happened to me. Here’s what I know: At the start of the war, in March 2003, my convoy was attacked in the city of An Nasiriyah. My Humvee crashed, and a few hours later I woke up behind enemy lines in an Iraqi hospital, badly injured and unable to move my legs. I was a prisoner of war.

Nobody likes to believe our military would mislead people—but they wanted a war hero so badly that they portrayed me as one. They didn’t get their facts straight before talking about what happened, and neither did the media. They said I went down guns blazing, like Rambo—but I never fired a shot, because my rifle had jammed. They later corrected the story, but I’m still paying the price. People write to me and say, “You don’t deserve all the attention.” I’ve received thousands of letters and calls like that. People think I lied or helped create the Rambo myth—that I wanted it.

But I’ve always told the truth. I could have chosen not to. It would have been so easy to say, “Yes, I did those things”— except I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. Honesty has always been very important to me. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few years, it’s that this is my life and I have to stand up for myself.

I remember the first time I put on the Army uniform. I just felt like a totally different person—I felt proud. I knew I was doing something important for my country. I’d signed up after high school, in July 2001, so I could pay for college and see the world. My dream was to go to Hawaii.

I don’t come from a rich family—it’s not like we lived in a cardboard box, but we didn’t have a ton of money. I grew up in Palestine, West Virginia, which is mostly a farming community; there aren’t a lot of jobs. My older brother, Greg, joined the Army at the same time I did. We enlisted before September 11, and that’s important to note. Everyone’s life completely changed after that day. I started basic training in South Carolina a week after the attacks, and I was petrified. But there was no backing out.

After training, I got stationed at Fort Bliss, Texas. There, I met one of the best friends I’ve ever had, Lori Piestewa. We were roommates in this little tiny room, and we connected. She’d tell me about her two kids in Arizona. A year later, I learned our unit would be deployed to Iraq. Lori was told she could opt out due to a shoulder injury. But she didn’t want me to go alone—she said she’d come with me to Iraq.

We headed overseas in February 2003 and spent a month in Kuwait. The Army made me a supply clerk, in charge of filing paperwork and issuing pens, notebooks and toilet paper. Simple stuff, but still important—you needed toilet paper, you came to me.

My unit drove into Iraq on March 21, at the end of a 100-mile-long convoy. We had a lot of problems from the start: Our vehicles were stalling, we were falling behind and everyone was getting exhausted. At one point a staff sergeant was working on his truck’s motor when the hood came down and cracked him in the head. Luckily he was fine, but these are the kinds of things we were dealing with.

On March 23, my group got separated from the convoy and drove into An Nasiriyah by mistake. Iraqis started firing at us from everywhere; some stood out in the open as if they didn’t care about getting shot. My own gun jammed. Lori was at the wheel of our Humvee; she was trying to turn it around when we got hit by a rocket-propelled grenade.

Next thing I knew, I woke up in an Iraqi hospital. I couldn’t feel my right arm or my legs; I wondered if I even had legs. I didn’t have my glasses and couldn’t see—and that was the worst part. Seeing is everything, really. It was terrifying. The building would shake whenever a bomb exploded nearby. I asked about Lori but got no reply. Once, I imagined I saw her sitting on my bed. I prayed I would see my family again. But I knew my life could end right there.

The most horrifying moment came when the doctors wanted to amputate my left leg. They wheeled me to an operating room, and I heard a boy screaming somewhere. I protested and shook my head back and forth so they couldn’t put on the oxygen mask. They decided not to operate.

Nine days later, on April 1, American soldiers rushed in to rescue me. When they found me, I was still terrified—I thought at first that they might be Iraqi imposters.

The military took me to a hospital in Kuwait the same night to stabilize me, and then flew me immediately to a hospital in Germany. I told officials there what I remembered of the ambush; I clearly said my gun had jammed. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the Rambo myth was already circulating in the press. On April 2, The Washington Post, citing unnamed officials, said, “Lynch…fought her captors fiercely, firing her weapon until she ran out of ammunition and shooting several enemy soldiers.” On April 14, the Army Times quoted Frank Thorp, who was then a Navy captain, as saying, “We do have very strong indications that Jessica Lynch was not captured very easily. Reports are that she fired her [M16 rifle] until she had no more ammunition.” I don’t know if those stories started before or after I’d told officials what had really happened, but regardless, the military didn’t immediately correct them.

Meanwhile, I had no idea how widely tales of my capture were spreading. I remember asking my mom on the phone if I’d made the local news back home in West Virginia. At this point, my main priority was getting through my surgeries. I had to have pieces of metal put in my spine to connect everything back together. My weight was down to 75 or 80 pounds. Plus I was almost bald; the doctors had shaved the top of my head because of a gash, but had left my hair really long in the back. So I had this Joe Dirt look going on. It was a nightmare. Imagine all these problems, and I was worried about my hair. My mom arrived and checked to see if I still had my teeth—such a mom thing to do.

On top of all this, the doctors told me I’d been sexually assaulted in my first few hours of captivity, before I was taken to the enemy hospital. I don’t remember a thing from that time. But I believe it’s true. I’m still looking for answers about exactly what happened. Probably I’ll never know.

Worse yet, I heard the tragic news that Lori had died at the Iraqi hospital. I was devastated. And I felt guilty—she had gone to Iraq to be by my side. I’d lost my best friend. Her kids had lost their mom.

Several weeks later, I came back to the States, to Walter Reed Army Medical Center. I began to understand then how much my story had been hyped, but the nurses kept me away from reporters; I was supposed to focus on getting better. In May, the press began to debunk the hero myth that it had helped create. But it wasn’t until July that the Army released its report on the ambush, this time with the facts right. I was honorably discharged in August.

In November, I felt ready to speak out for the first time about my experience, and I did, both publicly and in a book. I was honest, as always, but I got letters criticizing me for not talking sooner. In fact, I still get a lot of hate mail. People say, “You didn’t do anything in Iraq.” Sometimes I think I’m the most hated person in America. But I get plenty of support as well. I’ve received about 30,000 letters, mostly positive. Some say, “I feel like I know you,” which touches me.

I think people assume that I’m fine now, because I look fine. I can understand that. I don’t say, “Hi, nice to meet you, let me tell you about my injuries.” But the fact is, it’s been a struggle. I can’t feel my left leg from the knee down. I wear a brace 24/7. Occasionally, I have nightmares about people chasing me and wanting to kill me. But still, I’m lucky. I got to come home, when so many others didn’t.

Now I’m moving on with my life. I’ve finished three semesters at West Virginia University, where I’m studying to be a teacher. Kids are my passion. In January, I gave birth to my daughter. She’s a miracle because I didn’t know if my injuries would prevent me from having children. Her name, Dakota—it means “friend” in a Native American language—is a reminder of Lori, who was the first Native American woman to die in combat for America on foreign soil. My daughter shares Lori’s middle name, Ann, as well. I think of Lori every day.

The final weeks of my pregnancy were tough—but so worth it. Probably the hardest part came when I was in the hospital. After I gave birth, I was woozy from the anesthesia, and I couldn’t feel anything below my waist. I didn’t have my glasses, so I couldn’t see. For a moment, it brought me back to that fear I felt when I first woke up in the enemy hospital. I was right back in Iraq just then, although I knew deep down, I’m all right. It’s moments like that when you have to keep telling yourself: It’s going to be OK.

And it is. Dakota’s dad, Wes, and I just bought a new house, and we’re a family. Dakota is definitely a daddy’s girl. I’m glad they have such a wonderful bond, because he works at night in maintenance and doesn’t get to see her as much as he’d like. One day we’ll get married, but we’re in no hurry. I think things are perfect the way they are now. Sometimes I get asked if I’d want Dakota to join the Army. I’ll allow her to make her own decisions. I loved the military and would probably still be serving if things had gone differently.

Nonetheless, I felt I had to testify before Congress this spring so I could set the record straight once and for all. I saw it as a chance to say—again—that I never took credit for anything I didn’t do, and that I don’t know why the military and media tried to make me a legend. I also wanted to show my support for Pat Tillman, the football star and soldier. The military had put out the story that he’d been killed by the enemy in Afghanistan, but actually it was friendly fire. The Tillman family is still looking for the whole truth.

The response to my testimony has been mostly supportive. People say I did the right thing, and that makes me feel good. My friends and family have been incredibly helpful, and I’m grateful to them. I’m still the same person I was when I joined the Army—I’m just a lot stronger now.